


A Moment’s Courage or a Lifetime of Regret

by elrhiarhodan



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Awkward Sods Being Awkward, Bryndeavour, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Endeavour Morse Needs a Hug, Fear, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Kisses, Longing, Love, M/M, Max DeBryn Needs a Hug, Period Typical Homophobia, Pining, Post Season 6 (Degüello), Reginald Bright is a BAMF, Rescue, Slow Burn, Start of Season 7, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, respect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 00:33:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21963871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: Morse would have preferred to stay and take care of Max instead of running down McGyffen and his heavies at Four Winds Aggregate, but he has a job to do.  Afterwards, breaking down Box and Jago's corrupt little empire at Castle Gate doesn't leave him time to go to the hospital and make sure that Max is all right.  In fact, it's not until January - six weeks later - that Morse catches up with his favorite Home Office Pathologist.  At a crime scene, of course.Max, for his part, is doing a good job of pretending that the kidnapping never happened.  Until he can't anymore.
Relationships: Max DeBryn/Endeavour Morse
Comments: 11
Kudos: 50





	A Moment’s Courage or a Lifetime of Regret

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TeaCub90](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaCub90/gifts).



> Title from my favorite line in the entire Morse'verse canon - uttered by Reginald Bright before he goes to put those punks in their place towards the end of Degüello.
> 
> Written for TeaCub90, for the 2019 Morse'Verse Secret Santa. Happiest of holidays and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> My first time writing for the Endeavour fandom, and my first time writing Morse in any form.

Morse has been terrified too many times in his life; serial killers and tigers and bank robbers are the usual causes. He’s come so close to death so many times it’s beginning to feel like old hat. He still fears violence, but he doesn’t find himself the least bit overwhelmed by the prospect anymore. But it’s another matter completely when violence touches the people he cares about.

When Max had been taken, Morse had been gripped by cold, unreasoning terror. It had been as bad as what had happened at Blenheim Vale, when Thursday had been shot and he’d been carted off to prison, where no one would tell him if his friend and mentor had lived or died. In a way, Max’ kidnapping had been worse; Max is his _friend_ , one of the very few people on this earth who understand him, who see him clearly. Yes, Morse had once thought that way about Thursday, but this past year at Castle Gate has damaged the bond between them, and Morse has had to let that relationship settle into something different, something less than it had once been.

Maybe that’s why he’d gravitated to Max over the past few months, finding solace and peace in Max’ company in a way he hasn’t had with another human in a very long time.

_Not since Susan._

Thinking about his former fiancee doesn’t hurt quite so much anymore, at least when the memory is oblique. If he deliberately remembers Susan and how happy he’d been with her, the pain is still as sharp as a bullet wound, the slash of a knife. But now, if his thoughts accidentally stray in her direction, Morse doesn’t feel like death would be a reasonable alternative to life without her.

That feeling has been transferred to Max.

It had been a slow thing, an accretion of feelings and events over the years. Trusting Max to fix him after Mason Gull and his knife in the Bodleian, the careful interplacement of a medical bag between Morse and a corpse, a sympathetic and understanding smile when Morse’s colleagues laugh at some of his more outlandish theories, finally culminating on a summer afternoon in a garden rich with the scent of life.

Morse knows nothing will ever come of the feelings he has for Max, and he doesn’t mind. These feelings are too dangerous, even if they could ever be reciprocated - even in these permissive times. But he can be Max’ friend, and that will more than suffice.

After Box shot that stinking piece of corruption who masqueraded as a Detective Sergeant and nearly died in the process, Morse had called for two ambulances; the first for Max, who’d feebly argued that he could get himself to the hospital under his own steam. Morse tried not to smile when he said, "Like I do?"

Max had let out a snort of laughter and groaned at the pain; Morse stayed with him until the medical teams arrived and then reluctantly got back to business. McGyffen and his heavies are nasty pieces of work and while backup from Traffic has arrived, Morse should be on hand to help Jim round them up.

By the time Burkitt is arrested and his statement brings down the whole corrupt lot of them, Thursday wants to head back to Castle Gate to make sure that none of Box’ creatures try to destroy evidence. Morse doesn’t tell Thursday that he’d prefer to head to the hospital to check on Max personally - that would be a bit odd. Or perhaps not, in any other circumstance.

They had nothing to worry about, after all. Bright had stepped in and secured the facility in his own inimitable fashion (and if the Morse from 1965 can’t imagine ever being proud to serve under CS Bright, well, he’s not really that man anymore, is he?). Morse sends Thursday home and takes advantage of the privacy to call the hospital to check on Max, who had - unsurprisingly - checked himself out against medical advice.

Just as he’s about to call Max at home, Jim pokes his head in and says, "No rest for the wicked, matey. There’s a domestic in Jericho that’s escalated."

Morse sighs and says, "I’ll drive."

It takes too many hours to sort out what’s happened and by the time everything settles, it’s close to nine. Without a vehicle of his own, yet, Morse has to return the pool car to the station for the next shift - though Jim takes pity and drives him back to his billet at section housing.

At least that won’t be for much longer …

Every moment of the next day and the days that follow are filled with the clean-up from Box and Jago’s operation, weeding out the corruption, breaking down the players and exposing the tentacles of the operation. Morse barely has time to breath, let alone go to see Max. At then end of a very long week, Thursday sends him home with the admonishment to get some sleep and some food in him forthwith, and not necessarily in that order. Morse, never one for obedience, heads to Max’ domain at the Radcliffe. He doesn’t find the good doctor in residence and one of Max’ subordinates tells Morse that Max is on extended leave and he’s left Oxford for a visit with his family, and then some fishing up north. He won’t be back on rota until after the New Year.

The last worries Morse a bit; after all, it’s mid-November, not exactly the season to be fly-fishing on the Tay, but it just might be Max’ way of saying _stay away, don’t bother me_.

Life settles back into familiar patterns now that the old Cowley gang has reunited. Morse picks Thursday up every morning, and Mrs. Thursday’s seems to have forgiven her husband for whatever transgressions he’d committed. She’s there most mornings to tuck sandwiches into his coat pocket and tell him to come home safe - although sometimes she does say that they’ll be something hot for him on the hob, since she has plans that evening.

She smiles at Morse and Morse understands everything communicated in that expression. _Watch over him, make sure you both stay out of trouble, bring him home safe_. Morse smiles back, letting her know that the message has been received.

Three weeks before Christmas, Morse changes the course of his life and commits himself to Oxford and the police in a way he’d never thought possible. He buys a house - a former drug den where he’d once admonished Box and Jago for their callousness. It’s all he can afford, but it has potential, and a garden, and it’s the first time in his life that he’ll live alone in his own space. Jim and Thursday come over the first weekend after Morse had signed his mortgage (and half his salary away) and the three of them managed to do a credible job of painting over the graffiti and ripping out the carpets. The kitchen will need a lot of work, but that will have to wait. Besides, Morse isn’t one for cooking anyway; Jim had joked that all Morse really needed was an icebox and a couple of cabinets to store the liquor - he hadn’t been too far from the truth.

The week between Christmas and New Year’s is always an odd one for a policeman in Oxford. The city’s half-deserted - the student population has mostly departed, and even the dons have the good sense to go on holiday. But the city is more than a university town, and a busy station like Castle Gate can’t run on a skeleton staff. Thursday, though, takes leave - he and Mrs. Thursday and Miss Thursday are going to Italy to visit Sam, and they’ll be gone for two weeks although Thursday mutters that he can come back after a week if needs be.

CS Bright tells him to take the time, he’s earned it. He and Strange and Morse will be more that able to hold down the fort. 

Three days into 1970, Castle Gate CID gets its first homicide and Morse and CS Bright take the call. There’s a moment of high tension and low comedy as they both try to get into the driver’s seat. Morse surrenders the moment and the keys to his superior, who drives a bit too recklessly for someone who not so recently headed up the Traffic Division of the Thames Valley Police Department. Tyres don’t exactly squeal, but it’s a close-run thing as they pull up to the crime scene.

Morse’s heart gives a little jump when he sees a familiar shape kneeling over the corpse on the cold ground. 

Max is back.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The sound of car tyres crunching on gravel distract Max’ attention from the body on the ground, which is - in and of itself - not a problem. The rapid pounding of his heart and the cold sweat that soaks through his vest is. He only relaxes when he recognizes the men exiting the standard police issue vehicle - one half of his rescue team - Chief Superintendent Bright and Detective Sergeant Morse.

 _Morse._ Max’ heart pounds fast for another reason entirely. 

The men approach and Max swallows hard against the dryness. "Good morning, gentlemen." He runs through his preliminary findings, and while he hates to be conclusive before an autopsy, it’s a pretty close run thing. "Unless the corpus had been extremely double-jointed, the angle of the knife wound across this throat was caused by a person or persons unknown. Likely someone six to eight inches - or fourteen to twenty centimeters going by the new mandate - taller. Exsanguination occurred _in situ_ and death occurred within a minute of the attack. Of course, I’ll need the complete coroner’s report to certify my own analysis." Max adds that there’s no wallet on the body, but the corpse is still wearing his watch and wedding band so robbery might not have been a motive.

"Thank you, Doctor DeBryn. I’ll let DS Morse liaise with you on the official report." Bright gives him a curt nod and heads off to talk with the SOC team.

Max tries to heave himself to his feet but the combination of excessive amounts of blood on icy soil make the task difficult. He slips a bit and expects to take an ungainly fall, but Morse catches him, ignoring the blood and the dead body. Morse carefully pulls him back, away from the crime scene, before he lets go and despite the grotesqueness of the scene, Max is tingling wherever Morse’ hands are.

"Welcome back to Oxford, Doctor."

Oh, that voice - so deep and lush - it’s haunted his dreams for years. And even during his nightmares the last few weeks, he has always been able to surface back to sanity when he remembers Morse calling out, _It’s all right, Doctor, we’ll have you home safe soon._

But that’s not something Max can ever tell Morse, so he just says, "Good to be back. And happy New Year, Morse."

"The same to you." Morse looks at him with such deep, wide eyes, so serious and intent, searching.

"You shaved off your mustache." The words pop out of Max’ mouth without conscious thought.

Morse touches his upper lip and smiles slightly. "It was time."

They stand there, staring at each other, at a loss for words, when someone behind him clears their throat. "Sirs, we need to remove the body. If you wouldn’t mind?"

"Ah, right - of course. Max picks up his case and marches towards his car. Morse follows.

Morse waits until he’s stowed his gear in the boot and asks, "How are you?"

"Fine, just fine." Max doesn’t think this is an appropriate time and place to tell Morse that he’s terrified of his own shadow these days. He doesn’t think there will ever be an appropriate time and place for that. "Had a nice long vacation up north."

"Fishing?" Morse sounds skeptical. Rightfully so.

"No fishing, but caught up on my fly-tying. Reading, too. It was nice to have a bit of time when I was answerable to nothing and no one."

Morse nods. "That’s always important."

Max can’t help himself and snorts. "When was the last time you took a holiday?" 

That earns Max a bright laugh. "True enough. Maybe someday. I’m a homeowner now, so I don’t have much in my budget for frivolity."

Even though Morse had mentioned that he’d been saving up for a downpayment on a house, that bit of news startles Max. "Really?"

"It’s not much - a former drug den, but it’s got potential." Morse looks at him sideways. "And a garden, or at least a space for one. It’s mostly trash and weeds right now."

Max rocks back on his heels. "A project, then."

"A long term one, certainly."

"Well, if you would ever like some advice, I’ll always be happy to offer my expert opinion."

"That would be much appreciated."

Something catches Max’ eye - it’s Bright heading towards them. "Looks like you’re back on the clock."

Morse pulls out his wallet and takes out a slip of paper. "My new address and telephone number - just in case."

Max doesn’t ask, _in case of what?_ , nor does he glance at the paper as he tucks it into his own wallet. He can’t afford to think about this bit of information and the fact that Morse had it ready and waiting to give to him. Instead, Max just reminds Morse to stop by around two this afternoon for the report before Bright whisks Morse away and they are gone in the haze of a cold and sunny winter’s morning.

The days pass quickly - they always do, since people are always dying. Not too many murders, but a string of flu deaths at the hospital that require his input, there’s also a potential malpractice case that requires a fairly complicated write-up for the Morbidity and Mortality review panel. Coming off of a six-week leave puts Max at the top of the rota for two solid weeks, not that he minds. Exhaustion is a better narcotic than alcohol.

He doesn’t see Morse at all during this period; not since Morse had picked up his report on the murdered man and Max is actually a bit curious how all of that turned out. Morse is his usual source of information for police business, but it would be really very strange for a Home Office Pathologist to simply stop by the station fairly brimming with vulgar curiosity. And really, is it that important?

To his surprise, and no small delight, Morse pays a call on him at the hospital.

"What brings you down into my dreaded domain?" Max _has_ to tease. 

"Have a question about the report on Roger Millhouse."

"Millhouse?" Max doesn’t recognize the name.

"The John Doe in the park with his throat cut from the beginning of January. We were able to make an identification via a missing persons report."

"Ah." Max doesn’t say he’d just been wondering about that particular dead body. "And what is your question?"

Morse doesn’t have just one question - he has a dozen, and being Morse, they are all ones that require some thought and consideration. Max’ answers engender new questions and it’s almost an hour before Morse gets that look - the one where he realizes he’s in the morgue and there are dead bodies in the cooler he’s leaning against.

But Morse seems to have overcome his fear of dead bodies - at least for the moment - and gives Max a searching look. "How are you doing?"

The clock ticks a bit too loudly, or maybe that’s Max’ heart. He might have been able to push Morse’s concerns off at a crime scene, but he can’t find the strength to deflect at the moment. "I’ve been better, honestly. Keeping busy helps."

"I’ve been there, and yes - the work helps. Focusing on other things…" Morse shoves his hands into his pockets and pushes away from the cooler wall.

Max finishes the thought. "Instead of what happened." 

Morse nods tersely and licks his lips. "Was wondering …"

"Yes?"

"If you have any interest in Verdi? Thursday got me a pair of tickets for the Royal Opera for Christmas, _La Traviata_ , and I was hoping that you’d like to join me." There’s such a studied indifference in the request that makes Max think that he is actually Morse’s first choice of companion.

"I would be delighted - when are the tickets for?"

"Not until mid-March, actually. Wanted to ask you far enough in advance so you’d be able to put in for the time. It’s a Saturday evening performance, and thought that perhaps we could catch an early supper before going to Covent Garden."

"That does sound lovely." Max knows of a lovely, quiet place that’s perfect for a pre-concert meal. "Will you let me make those arrangements?"

Morse smiles. "Of course - and thank you." He tells Max the date and turns to leave, but pauses in the doorway like Janus before turning back. "Max - if you ever want to talk, about anything, you can always call me. I’ve been told I’m a good listener."

Max thinks of that slip of paper that’s still in his wallet, although he’s long since memorized the information on in. "I will bear that in mind."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

1970 seems to bring out the worst in Oxford and Morse is racking up overtime like mad. Not that he minds - every penny is needed these days. Houses - especially ones that need work - have a way of eating up even the most generous of salaries. After six twelve-hour shifts in a row, Thursday sends Morse home with the familiar admonishment - food and sleep - and not to return to the station for three days.

Their relationship is slowly moving back to what it had once been, but Morse knows it’s never going to be the same. He’s changed, Thursday’s changed, and even without Thursday’s year-long flirtation with the seductively corrupt Box, Morse doesn’t think it would have been possible for things to stay the same. He’s not the confused innocent anymore, eager for approval and validation. Morse has grown up, he’s on the other side of thirty and when he looks back at the man he’d once been, he finds it near impossible to reconcile that naive idiot with the man he is now.

Instead of stopping at the pub for a liquid lunch, Morse actually pops into Richardson’s and stocks up on some basics - bread, lunchmeat, cheese, and even a few veg that he might actually eat before they go bad. It helps that there’s an off-license nearby and he picks up the usual there - whisky and gin - and the clerk gives him a policeman’s discount, for which Morse is grateful.

He remembers to put away the groceries before pouring himself a triple and settling down for an afternoon with Mozart to stave off a cold and gray winter afternoon. _The Magic Flute_ gives way to _Abduction from the Seraglio_ before Morse succumbs to the exhaustion. He wakes up to darkness, the record needle clicking against the label, and the shrill ring of the telephone.

Morse stumbles across the room and picks up the phone, he has no idea what time it is. "Hello."

"Morse? Is that you?" The voice on the other end is the barest whisper, but still familiar.

"Doctor DeBryn? Max? What’s wrong?"

"I think there’s someone trying to break in to the house - I’m not sure. But - "

Morse doesn’t waste time telling Max that he should have called the nearest station to report the disturbance. "I’ll be right over - stay down and keep your lights off. If it’s all clear outside, I’ll ring your doorbell three times."

Max repeats the instruction. "Thank you."

Morse hangs up and heads out. According to the clock on the Jag’s dashboard, it’s a little before ten PM, not the usual hour for a home intruder, but Morse isn’t convinced that someone trying to break in to Max’s house. Still, he disregards both the speed limit and the snow that’s been accumulating on the roads and makes it over to Max’ in fifteen minutes. The house is dark and nothing looks disturbed, but Morse checks the garden, keeping his flashlight low. The back door is locked, all of the windows are intact and it’s the same for the front door. Other than Morse’s own, there are no footprints in the snow that’s now inches deep around Max’ house.

Morse rings the doorbell three times; no more than a minute passes before he hears footsteps and sees the lights go on. Max does have the presence of mind to ask who’s there before he opens the door.

"Just me, Morse."

The front door’s flung open, and except for that horrible afternoon in Wicklesham when Max had been roughed up, bound and gagged by McGyffen’s heavies, Morse has never seen the doctor in such disarray. His glasses are askew, his hair looks like it’s been combed with an eggbeater and although he’s wearing a proper robe and slippers, the belt’s untied and it looks like it might be on inside out.

What’s worse is the expression on Max’ face - fear warring with shame - and that makes Morse’s heart stutter in agonized sympathy.

"May I come in, Max?" 

"Oh, of course. What am I thinking." Max steps aside and lets Morse in. 

Morse puts his snow-dusted coat on the rack beside the door and toes off his shoes. The floor is cold underneath his feet as he gently guides Max into the living room and sits him down on the sofa. The room is chilly - the heat’s been turned down for the night, but rather than go to the thermostat, Morse builds a fire in the fireplace, thinking that the warmth and aroma and the merry flames will do Max some good. 

Max doesn’t object, he just sits on the couch, twisting the sash of his robe and watches Morse with wide eyes. Once the fire’s lit, Morse heads to the kitchen and makes them some tea. He’s not sure if it’s best to leave Max by himself or to crowd him. He knows from his own experiences that space and time are better than well-intentioned companionship, and Max has always struck him as a man cut from similar cloth. But still, it wouldn’t do to leave Max alone for too long. He fishes around Max’ cabinets for tea things and brings everything out on a conveniently available tray. 

Max is hasn’t moved, he’s staring into the fire and his expression is far too bleak for Morse’ comfort. He pours the tea, adds a splash of cream and puts the cup into his friend’s hand. "Drink."

He almost expects Max to punctuate the moment with a pithy quote about tea and Englishmen, but Max just raises the cup to his lip and takes a sip. Morse doesn’t say anything, he just sits across from Max and enjoys the heat from the fire. Max will talk when he’s ready.

Eventually, Max lets out a sigh and puts the tea cup down. "I’m sorry for dragging you out here for nothing. I thought - " Max shakes his head, "I don’t know what I thought but I heard something and it was if I was back in the morgue and those bastards had come for me. Maybe a branch banging against the window or the creak from the hot water pipes, but I was back there and I - " Max shakes his head. "All I could cling to was your voice telling me that it would be all right, that you’d get me home soon, and I had to trust that. So I called you and you came."

Morse goes to Max and kneels before him, taking Max’ hands between his own. They are too cold and Morse holds them, trying to warm them. "You did the right thing, Max. You called me and I came. I’ll always come - no matter what."

"I feel like such an idiot. I’m not a child to be frightened by the monster under the bed, I'm a grown man."

"Who has experienced a terrible thing. You were kidnapped, Max. Those animals took you from what should have been a safe place. They hurt you." Morse feels all the terror he had that day, seeing the gravel on the morgue floor, Max’ broken glasses. "I wanted to kill them. I brought a gun with me just for that purpose."

"I’m glad you didn’t. You’re not a killer, Morse."

"They hurt you."

"I survived." That seems to trigger something in Max. He pulls his hands free and says, with a bit of his customary peevishness, "Oh, do get off of the floor, Morse."

Morse laughs a bit and sits next to Max on the sofa. 

They fall back into silence as the logs burn in the fireplace, the embers glowing against the darkness.

Max asks, "How did you manage?" 

"Manage?"

"After … Blenheim Vale, after you - " Max doesn’t seem able to finish the sentence.

Morse spares Max, understanding what he's asking. "After I spent two months as a guest of Her Majesty at Farnleigh Prison on trumped up murder charges?"

"Yes, exactly."

Morse sighs. No one has ever had the courage to ask him that, not even tangentially. "I slunk off, tail between my legs and spent the next two months hiding out on Lake Silence. Drank a lot of Scotch. And gin. Vodka, too, when I ran out of everything else. Don’t think it actually healed anything that was broken, but the quiet helped the scar tissue form."

"Scar tissue - that’s what I need."

"Max - " Morse doesn’t know what to say - he doesn’t want Max to become like him. Hard and angry and finding it easier to take surcease out of a bottle of Scotch than to find pleasure in poetry and flowers and seed cake. "It will get better, I promise."

Max makes a little sound, half hopeful, half skeptical. Morse wants to give Max everything that _he’d_ needed in those first weeks of exile on Lake Silence, but those things are beyond the pale, even between friends.

"Let’s get you back to bed, a good night’s sleep will help with a lot of what ails you right now." Morse curses himself for the banality of that statement.

Max gives him a wild look, all of that terrible and unguarded fear returning, and Morse can’t resist. All of his walls, the barriers he’s built to protect himself and to protect Max, come crumbling down. "Do you want me to stay?"

Max nods, the relief evident in his eyes. "Yes, please." Then Max bites his lip, distress returning. "Upstairs, with me? Stay with me?"

Morse says the only thing he can. "Of course."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

For a moment, the light is far too bright; burning at the edges of Max’ eyelids, and then it fades away. The room is warm, though, and Max is more than comfortable - he feels safe, something he hasn’t felt for a long time.

He tries to pull the covers over his head to block the sunshine - he’s off rota today and wants to go back to sleep and let this feeling linger. But the covers are stuck and that’s enough to pull Max out of his too-pleasant state of semi-somnolence. He rolls over and discovers that he’s not alone.

The memories of last night’s events come back in perfect Technicolor clarity - the panicked call he’d placed to Morse, Morse’s arrival, the pair of them sitting in front of the fire, Morse on his knees and trying to warm Max’s hands. They’d talked, and Morse’s candidness broke the barriers that Max had tried so hard to shore up since Wicklesham.

He’d asked Morse not to leave. To stay with him. _To not let him be alone._

And Morse hadn’t hesitated, all but carrying him upstairs and to bed like a sick child. He’d tucked Max in and stripped to his vest and shorts, lying atop the covers but under the extra blanket Max keeps at the foot to the bed. 

For a few minutes, Max worried that he wouldn’t be able to sleep with someone next to him, but the concern had given way to a delightful sense of peace and safety. Morse had been careful not to touch him or otherwise infringe on his space, but he’d still been a solid presence, a bulwark against Max’ foolish terrors. Exhaustion had overwhelmed him and sleep came like in like the tide.

Max reaches out and grabs the alarm clock, it’s numbers large enough to see without his glasses; it’s just gone seven and a bit too early for his day off. There’s no reason to hurry out of bed and get the day started.

He puts the clock back on the nightstand, exchanging them for his glasses, and rolls over to face Morse. Max had always appreciated the man’s beauty - like an Arthurian knight - Galahad, maybe - a Pre-Raphaelite painting come to life, but this morning, watching Morse sleep, Max is struck to the heart. He could lie here like this forever.

He sighs in happy contentment and Morse opens his eyes, perhaps woken by the slight sound.

"Good morning, Doctor."

A delightful shiver rolls through Max; Morse isn’t using the professional qualification as a way to enforce some distance between them in this intimate setting - not with how much affection he says the word. 

"Good morning to you, too." 

Morse smiles and there is so much tender affection there. Max feels his lips curving up in an answering smile. 

Morse whispers, "Max …"

The way Morse says his name sends a very pleasant fluttering in his belly, and points south, too. Everything crystallizes between one heartbeat and the next - if he lets this moment pass, if he lets fear dictate desire, he will regret it forever. Max reaches out and touches Morse, running a careful finger along one knife-sharp cheekbone, and down to his jaw, and finally, coming to rest on Morse’s lips, which are soft and warm and just a bit dry.

He should have a bit of poetry at the ready, an stanza from Pope or Housman, or perhaps most appropriately from that American, Whitman. _Now there was a man who loved the pretty boys._ But Max says nothing, not wanting to break this moment.

Morse takes his hand and holds it like it’s a wild bird before turning it palm upward and placing a kiss on it. 

Max can’t quite remember to breathe and from behind him, the sun breaks across the roof lines, magnified and reflected by last night’s ice and snow. Morse is facing the sun and his pupils contract, leaving Max to swim in the blueness as Morse leans forward and kisses him.

The world stops and the gods peer down to admire the perfection of the moment. Morse is tender; his kiss doesn’t take or demand, but relentlessly offers Max his soul. Max wraps his arms around Morse and offers Morse everything. And more.

In a tiny corner of his mind not yet consumed with discovering all of the physical pleasures of kissing Endeavour Morse - the reality and not the dream - Max thinks of an ancient map he’d once seen, where the edges of the known world were bordered with fantastical beasts and the words, _"Here be dragons"_ , written there, warning travelers to stay away.

The future, especially a future with Morse, is going to be like those maps - bordered by monsters ready to destroy them. But Max doesn’t worry about monsters, not anymore. He’ll stand side by side with Morse and slay them all.

_FIN_


End file.
